Run Away and Never Look Back
by Pandora Finesilver
Summary: Scout always seemed to be running towards something, never thinking of the consequences, and never looking back. His team are used to his brazen manner and rude comments, but the truth of the matter is that its all a farce to hide the pain of his past. When Scout reaches his breaking point, his behavior becomes erratic, and his team must act fast to save him, before it's too late.
1. Cages and Wings

EDIT: I went back and fixed a few errors, besides puttin in a lot more stuff and some other perspectives.

* * *

 **Chapter 1** : A Cage Without Bars and Flight Without Wings

* * *

Scout always seemed to be running towards something, crude and snarky, living for the thrill of battle. However, he wears a mask better than Spy, for he hides a dark secret all his own. . . And not in the least that "he" is actually a "she", his loud mouth and bravado are all a farce to hide his fears and pains.

One late night, when the inaction becomes too much and his own demons threaten to overwhelm him, a teammates catches him running away from his demons. Will they be able to figure out how to help their Scout? Or is it already too late?

* * *

Groaning, Scout rolled over, bundling himself tighter in the thin blanket, struggling to get comfortable on the lumpy mattress. After tossing and turning for a few more minutes, he finally stood and sighed, rubbing at his eyes. It was no use; he couldn't fall asleep.

The numbers on the clock glared 3:24 A.M. back at him, and he flopped back over on the bed. It was way too early for him to get up and be active. But the longer he lay there, the more intolerable the thought of stillness became. Cursing under his breath, he stood and started pacing in his room, falling into such a rhythm that he didn't even need to look to avoid crashing into the walls.

The room soon became too small, too tight, and he felt like a caged animal, cornered and unable to escape. Cursing once again, Scout pulled on a T-Shirt and threw on his cleats. Opening his door slowly, he cautiously peeked down the hall, listening carefully. When it was apparent that no one else was up at this ungodly hour, he shut the door behind him and sprinted down the hall.

Navigating the dark corridors like a pro, a hand lightly brushing the walls at times to help him make a quick turn (without ramming into anything, that is). He soon burst his way outside, taking in a gasping breath of air.

He stood stock-still, just outside the doors, suddenly uncertain what he intended to do. The nearest town was too far, and he didn't necessarily want to revisit the battlefield just yet. . .

Finally, he decided it didn't matter where he went, so long as he was moving. Running, always running. He felt wetness against his face and ignored it, weaving and dodging around obstacles, losing himself in the motions, the speed.

Coming to an abrupt halt, he realized he'd looped back towards the base. Heaving a sigh, more exhausted than ever, Scout headed inside. But instead of returning to bed, he wandered through the base, stopping at one of many elevated walkways.

Moving up to the very edge, he didn't even bother looking down, instead closing his eyes and sticking his toes all the way out over empty space. Balanced so precariously on his heels, he breathed in and held out his arms, imagining a fall into oblivian. How blissful, it would be, to feel nothing, at least for a little while.

With a sharp sigh, he withdraws, shaking his head sharply. Yawning, he glanced at the edge once more, before finally slouching off to bed, curling up beneath the covers silently.

* * *

I'd awoken, restless and craving a cigarette. Not wishing to don my full suit at this time of night, I simply pulled on my mask and threw on a robe and warm coat over my nightclothes and stepped outside, cloaking myself and slipping into the shadows with ease.

I'd been outside for less than a minute when the door suddenly slammed open and there stood Scout, panting softly as he glanced around. He seemed a little lost, before his jaw tensed and he threw himself forward, a blur of color in the pale moonlight. At first he seemed to be headed towards the exit of the base, before abruptly swerving away, into the battlefield.

. . .what was he doing at this time of night. . .? Curious, I trailed after my teammate for the better part of an hour, but he seemed to have no goal or destination in mind. I frowned slightly as he paused, turning on his heel and darted in a different direction, zigzagging here and there as though dodging enemy fire.

When he headed inside, I trailed more slowly behind. It wasn't difficult to tail him, considering the caphacony he raised with each long stride.

When silence rung out, Spy paused, and hurried his pace, just in time to see Scout teetering at the edge of one of the raised walkways.

Eyes closed, his expression equal parts peaceful, exhausted, and all around unsettling, he spread out his arms, rocking ever so slightly on his heels. Considering his heels were barely on the edge of the railing, he looked like he was either going to fall and end up with some nasty wounds, or else leap away and take flight like a bird.

I was moment from stepping forward and pulling him back, when he drew back from the edge with a sharp sound, partway between irritation and defeat.

Scuffing his toes over the ground, he turned and trotted back to his room, opening and closing the door cautiously.

There was something very off about all of this. . . Resolving to look into it more in the future, Spy returned to his room for the night.

* * *

5:02 A.M.

. . .

"WAKE UP, MAGGOTS!"

With a groan, Scout forced himself out of bed, knowing that if he didn't leave soon Soldier would break down his door. Which always ended up coming out of HIS paycheck. . . Fucking jerk.

Stumbling his way into the kitchen, Scout slumped into his chair, mumbling a greeting to the other mercenaries present at the table. Before he knew it, he was snoozing once again, having been too lethargic to get a cup of coffee.

With a good-natured chuckle, Engineer found the lads favorite mug and filled it, setting it before his comrade. "Up 'nd at'em, pardner."

Scout didn't budge and inch, even when the Texan shook his shoulder, gentle at first, then a little firmer. Frowning at their teammates near-comatose state, he sighed and took a seat, attending to his own meal for now.

He'd noticed this behavior more and more often with their Scout recently. The exhaustion, the lack of enthusiasm on the battlefield. . . He wasn't sure what was wrong, but he wasn't going to leave a teammate to struggle alone, whatever was wrong.

For now, the coffee seemed to be waking his comrade from the smell alone, so with the small peace offering, well, perhaps he could work on wearing down the kids tough outer shell. He was the youngest of them, despite being an adult he did act much younger. It wouldn't do to patronize him, that would only rile him up and make him defensive. . .

It would take some time to devise a proper plan, but Engie was patient, and really wanted what was best for his team. If it took time, so be it. He'd help in small ways in the meantime, until then.

* * *

*slides over my first TF2 fanfiction* Please read and review! Constructive criticism is welcome!


	2. Dusty Lungs and Absent Cares

Thank you, to everyone who's reviewed, followed, and faved! It really means a lot to me. Enjoy!

* * *

 **Chapter 2** : Dusty Lungs And Absent Cares

* * *

Some days, Scout sat at the small desk in his room, feet curled up awkwardly beneath the old wood, hands fidgeting idly with objects on hand. A letter from his older brother, two months old. A book his Ma had sent. Blank paper. A pen. A letter opener. He couldn't settle on any one thing, he couldn't think of anything else to do.

Absently, he thought of leaving his room and hanging out with Pyro, but the thought drifted away, with nary a fight on his part, down the stream of thought. Why not go bother Sniper, or see what Engie was making? See if Demo had any new stories? Aggravate Spy, if he could find him?

. . . None of it sounded good. He simply wasn't in the mood for it. He was strangely restless, and briefly considered getting up and going for a run.

After a few minutes absent fidgeting, he pushed himself up, tracking down his shoes, and some fresh wrappings for his hands. All slow, almost reluctant, as he prepared to leave.

He stopped halfway through, socks on and wrappings tightened, but he couldn't find one of his shoes. It was probably somewhere around here, but he didn't want to go look for it. . . It seemed like too much effort. So he was stuck, unable to run. Sighing, he collapsed back onto his bed, curling to face the wall.

He felt as though he'd lain there for decades, gathering dust and grime all over his lithe form, the world moving around him and leaving him behind. He took in a breath, felt the dust in his lungs, he felt heavy and weighed down. It should be easy, so easy, to shake off this strange restlessness and leave, to run or visit with the others, throw his old baseball around, _something_ , but he just. . . He just couldn't.

It didn't even occur to him that what was inhibiting a good run was his simple lack of desire to _find his shoe_ , which wasn't even a real obstacle.

But in his mind, it was as good as an electric fence topped with barbed wire.

* * *

"Mmey mmineer?"

"Huh? Oh, hey Pyro!"

Engineer looked up from his desk, leaving his blueprints for a moment to approach the suit-clad pyromaniac. He was clearly anxious about something, hanging just in the doorway and fidgeting with his hands.

". . . Something wrong there, Pardner?"

"Mms, Mmut mmn't mmft mms mrm mll mmay!"

"That's. . . Unusual to be sure. You tried knockin', to see if he was there? Could'a just gone for a run earlier today."

Pyro groaned and slapped his hands over his face, dragging them down slowly. He pointed, silently, at the window above Engie's bed.

Turning to follow the invisible line set, Engineer blinked a little in confusion, before shaking his head and chuckling nervously. He'd worked from dawn to dusk once again, focused on another of his projects. . . Well, no use making a fuss about it.

"Mm'm mmried mmrr hmm."

Engie looked back at Pyro, who seemed earnest and worried. He pat his teammates shoulder, nodding a little. "I am too, Pardner. I noticed his behavior seemed a little. . . Off the past week or so, but . . . Don't worry. I'm sure that we can figure it out."

". . .? 'Mwe'?"

Pyro pointed at his own chest, brightening a little at the inclusion. Engie and Scout were about the only people on base who seemed to genuinely like his company, so this was heartening news to him.

Engie smiled and nodded, letting out a loud "OOF!" When Pyro jumped up and hugged him tight around the middle, knocking the wind from him.

"W-woah there, Pyro! H-heh, surprised me there."

Engie hugged back for a minute or two, but when he went to let go found that Pyro didn't seem to want to let go . . .uhh. . . Now what?

* * *

Darkness grew, shadows stretching through the little room. Confined. Confined in this little room. Where else was there to go? Nowhere, that's where.

Letting out a heavy breath, Scout slowly sat up, breathed in slowly, then exhaled slowly, over and over, feeling heavy, fuzzy all over. He peeked out the window as the shadows stretched long and the sky blazed with gold and red.

Running a hand through his hair, he slowly turned and scooted off the bed, happening to spot his missing shoe, discarded just beneath his tiny dresser.

Huh. . . Shrugging, he pulled it on, then pulled on the other shoe. Glancing down at himself, then at the door, he finally looked at the window.

Shrugging to himself, he climbed up onto the bed, slid the window open, and hopped out. He hit the ground and took off running, feeling a little of that dusty feel slip away, as if the wind he was making was blowing it all off.

But it wouldn't leave his lungs. He couldn't find the joy in something he loved to do, something that usually chased away or soothed all his worries or pains. Soon, all too soon, he slowed to a stop, somewhere on the empty ceasefired grounds, and took a seat on a crate, head in his hand.

Letting out a sigh, he curled his legs up too, watching on absently as the sun slowly vanished and the night settled in. The stars beauty wasn't lost to him, hell, it was much better than in Boston, where all the lights made it nigh impossible to see. He knew he should be drinking it all in, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

He just. . . He didn't know why, but he just didn't care anymore.


	3. No One Sees Me Drown

Heya! This is a double-chapter update! Yes, two in one day. I've had these two chapters finished for some time, but the site was acting up, so I have been unable to post them until now. Enjoy!

* * *

 **Chapter 3** : Drowning on Dry Land (And No One Else Can See It)

* * *

Sometimes the urge to cry was overwhelming. Scout would sit there, going about his day or otherwise feeling fine, before the sensation would strike him like a fastball to the chest. It was so, so difficult to breathe straight and tears sprung into his eyes, threatening to fall.

The worst of it was, there was nothing to cry about. Nothing he could discern, at least. He fought hard to keep back the tears, lest the others see and be left to mock him or wonder what was wrong.

Perched on a crate with an excellent view of the stars, Scout stilled himself the best he could and just struggled to breathe evenly, eyes clenched tight to further ward off the tears.

* * *

Some days saw Scout moving about listlessly, a heavy, thick feeling in his chest, stumbling through a fog. He struggled to find the energy to leave his room on days like these, to find the energy to interact with the rest of the team. Hell, it took a ton of motivation just to find the will to leave his _bed_ most days, if only because the very thought of having to interact and _do_ things was exhausting.

These were the days he barely took care of himself. He didn't bother to shower or even eat. These things didn't really occur to him, as though unimportant. He only truly noticed the ache in his gut when it worsened the ballooning, sticky feeling of _wrong_ and _horrible_ and _bad_ that lingered in his chest, seeping into his lungs.

If he had to describe it, Scout would say it was like . . . Like a bubble of tar, situated just between his lungs. Some days it was small, and he barely noticed; and others it expanded out, pressing up against his lungs. This always seemed to limit his breathing; just enough to be noticeable, but never enough to truly impede it.

On particularly bad days, when the sudden urge to cry set in, he felt as though that bubble were filled to bursting, just _waiting_ for something to go miserably, horribly wrong. In which cases it would pop, and the tar would end up sticking inside and out of his lungs, leaving him an emotional _mess_ of a human being and turn his whole day on its head.

It didn't even have to be something that big. . . Something as simple as accidentally knocking over his coffee during breakfast could trigger such happenstance.

In an effort to keep the team out of his own line of fire, Scout did his best to further distance himself from them, excusing himself from conversations as swiftly as possible and, during battle, pushing himself even further and further ahead. He knew how irritable he could be as his energy waned, hidden pain snapping into anger.

When forced to sit down and interact, whether because he was injured and being healed up or because he and another teammate had wound up in the same spot during the mission, he'd offer whatever assistance was asked of him. He wound up exhausted when he had to partner up with people, and more often than not he purposefully pulled ahead or full behind in order to take a bullet for them, but he considered it worth it meanwhile.

That nasty tar always seem to encourage the thought that he was worthless otherwise. . .

. . . And, truth be told, Scout often doubted things in his life. Doubts would raise the self on a whim, but his nigh-eternal optimistic outlook shut down such thoughts almost immediately in most cases. Sure, he may keep certain thoughts among these close at hand (as Demo's sword really cursed or haunted? Would Soldier actually attack Snipes or Doc if he figured out they weren't American?) /just in case/ they turned out to be true. Though he reasoned they weren't. Most of the time. . .

. . . When he allowed them too, they just might consume him. He couldn't let that happen. He just couldn't. He had to stay strong, no matter what happened. He just had to stay strong, and he'd get through this. Just gotta hang in there.

* * *

. . . Scout awoke with a crick in his neck several hours later, and at first he didn't know what had brought him bac to consciousness.

A drop of water hit his cheek and he looked up, startled. The sky had gone dark, the stars erased, the moons light vanquished as a heavy rainstorm rolled in.

Scout stared blankly on as it began to rain, slowly pushing himself to standing. He was concerned, but only vaguely. In the darkness, soon to be soaked, he was definitely anxious, especially considering that he had no idea where the base was. . . looking back and forth, he finally decided to approach the nearer of the two structures he could see, identical in the dimness.

His lack of concern was caused by a . . . What could be described as a dense fog, wrapping around him and muffling his emotions. It made interacting with others far more difficult, as well, their responses and emotions just that much harder to recognize or take with any true candidness. Whereas, the monstrous lies and doubts seemed all the larger, exaggerated in the thick mist.

By the time Scout made it to the base, the rain was so caphoconiously loud as to be deafening, muffling his other senses as well as he forced open the door and stepped inside.

". . . Dammit."

He sighed, shaking his head swiftly, much like a dog, before brushing back his bangs. He held out his arms, looking down at himself as his clothes sagged under the weight of the water. At least he was inside now. . .

"Vhat is leetle BLU baby man doing here?!"

Head snapping up, Scout froze up in his shock, the words meaning and the implications clustering around them like Medic's doves refusing to align straight away.

When the RED Heavy moved to grab him, Scout remained frozen, unable to force himself to move. The moment he was touched, however, he screamed, startling the Russian man long enough that he managed to force himself to move.

Darting away, he flung himself at the door, bursting outside into the storm outside, a huge clap of thunder ringing sharply in his ears, masking the Heavy's shouts for backup.

Scout almost immediately slipped on the muddy ground, landing face-first in the mud. His feet scrambling for purchase, he forced his hands into the softened, slippery earth and propelled himself forward, blindly fleeing as his thoughts twisted and turned in his head, a million mini-Scouts screaming various warnings and dangers and fears in his head, some fabricated and some old, all fresh and urgent and overwhelming.

Struggling to wipe the mud from his eyes, Scout ended up slipping again soon afterwards anyway, this time landing on his ass. As he moved to stand once again, rubbing his tailbone, he chanced a glance back and regretted the action instantly.

In the sudden illumination provided by a timely lightning strike, he saw silhouettes of the RED team, armed with flashlights and, undoubtedly, weaponry. They were after him.

. . .

 _Oh GOD they were AFTER HIM—!_

Rising once more, Scout began booking it, doing his best to avoid slipping and avoid obstacles. Luck was not on his side, however, as he tripped minutes later, his ankle twisting sharply as he went down hard. Crying out, he moved slowly, testing his ankle and lightly tracing it with his hand.

Ohh, not good. . . Definitely not good. Slowly forcing himself to rise, he bit his lip hard enough to bleed in an effort to muffle any further sounds. Limping, he had gotten no further than ten feet when a light suddenly trained on him.

"Found 'im!"

Scout turned sharply, squinting in the light but otherwise caught like a deer in the headlights; he couldn't force himself to move.

His breathing picked up and his eyes darted side to side frantically as other members of RED closed in, trying to keep track of them all. He could hear them shouting to one another over the rain and occasional thunder, completely surrounding him. With his leg and lacking any weaponry, he was well and truly doomed. DOOME—

He flinched and slapped away the hand that touched him from behind, shouting, "DON'T TOUCH ME!" His voice cracking sharply.

Their was a collective hush from the band of mercenaries, and a quick exchange of glances. There was honest fear and distress in the youngster's voice, and he was well and truly helpless at the moment. He was sopping wet, covered in mud and wounded, his breathing fast and shallow, eyes wide and likely brimming with tears.

. . . There was no honor in killing someone who couldn't defend themselves, let alone during ceasefire. It was natural that the REDs and BLUs wouldn't get along, they were set to be enemies, after all. It was logical that they might even grow to hate each other. But that didn't mean they couldn't extend a helping hand to someone who needed it.

The question was. . . How could they get him back inside the base in order to let him dry off and fix him up. . .?


	4. Dogtags, MP3's and Engie's

**Chapter 4** : Throat Feels Tight, The Beat's Still Strong, and Engie's Are the Embodiment of Compassion

* * *

Sometimes the touch of metal on his throat was soothing. He'd play around with his dog tags, reminded of his home, and all would be well. Other days the very thought left him choking and gagging, and he was forced to remove it from his person. But he always kept them near, tucked into his pocket usually, or lazily tied around his wrist or upper arm.

It was always important, to keep them near. . . A sort of security blanket, if you will.

On the other hand, he hated the very thought of having anything impede his breathing, and had a tendency to avoid any such things that did at all costs. He preferred to forgo scarfs whenever it got cold enough for it, fearful that the end would get caught on something and leave him gasping for breath when the end caught and pulled the fabric taut against his throat.

Hell, he could hardly touched his own throat without freaking out, preferring to use the back to wipe off mud or gently scratch an itch.

One can imagine his complete and utter dismay when, ten seconds into his first close-combat encounter with the RED Scout, He was smacked in the throat with a baseball bat. The blow itself wasn't nearly enough to kill him, but despite the existence-less restoration abilities of RESPAWN that took over him shortly thereafter, BLU Scout still felt like he was being choked the rest of the day.

Sometimes, when rough-housing with the other mercs, Demo or Snipes would grab him in a chokehold and give him a rough noogie, and he'd end up fighting back, demanding they let him go.

He couldn't get mad at them, not really, for only laughing and asking "or what?". He could only blame himself for panicking that one time when Snipes tightened his hold for a moment. He'd wound up letting out a rather harsh cough and twisting aroudn enough to bite the Aussie, who cursed and thankfully, /thankfully/ releasing him.

Scout hadn't even stayed to explain, he'd taken off running, panicked at the choked feeling in his throat and admittedly frightened at what the others would do or say. After locking himself in his room, he'd gotten too anxious and thrown the window open, throwing himself out into the storm that had kept them all inside to begin with.

The lashing rain and roaring wind, the feral, thrashing nature of the storm worked its way into his very bones and for a blessed hour he forgot why he'd ran off to begin with.

* * *

Screaming. Screaming out into the void. It could be very cathartic, all things considered. Or completely pathetic and useless.

Scout was feeling the latter end of that spectrum, kicking and squirming in the enemy RED Heavy's grasp. He'd even resorted to biting him, but that brooked little more than a wince. That didn't stop Scout from continuing to fight back, struggling to slip free.

He wound up in their common room, and the moment he was set down he tried to slip past him, only to slip and fall on his backside with a yelp.

"Calm down there, Pardner. We ain't gonna hurt'cha." The RED Engineer tried to soothe, holding out his hands placatingly. "Just calm down there. Y'all are gonna be just fine. Hey, 'Ro, have any spare clothes our. . . Guest could borrow?"

The RED Pyro gave a muffled reply and darted off, deeper into the base.

"Now . . . What were ya doin' out in a storm like this?"

"None of your fucking business!"

Scout huddled in on himself, peeking over his knees suspiciously, uncertain what exactly to expect but refusing to beleive their intentions were at all friendly.

The RED Engineer sighed a little and shook his head. Couldn't blame the boy for being wary, but at this rate he was gonna catch a cold. Finally, he reached up and removed his goggles, resting them on his forehead, and slowly reached out his hand with a slight smile. He hoped more direct eye contact would help. . .

"We ain't gonna hurtcha, promise. And none'a us want anyone sick durin' the battles, neither. . . If we give ya the towels an' things will ya dry yerself off, at least? We can try an' get in contact with yer team the momet the storm let's up a little."

The Scout glared at him, eyes flicking to his hands, then back up to his face. He was shivering minutely, the poor mite, but finally, finally he nodded a little, slowly reaching out to take the Engineer's hand.

Pyro burst back in just then with a muffled shout, startling the BLU Scout so badly he temporarily forgot he was injured; immediately bolting to his feet he yelped and fell over again, cursing profusely.

Pyro flinched and hunched their shoulders, mumbling apologetically as they held out a pair of fluffy gray pajama's with little pink unicorns and rainbows scattered all over them.

"Jeezus! . . . You alright?"

Their 'guest' slowly nodded, gritting his teeth as he felt over his ankle. At the reassurance, Engineer gestured for Pyro to follow after him and hauled the Scout to his feet, dodging a sharp blow the younger immediately sent his way.

"It's alright," He assured him, cutting off apologies before they could leave the younger mouth. "Let's go to my workshop, I can keep an eye on you there, get ya a little privacy outside the common room."

The BLU Scout only nodded in reply, allowing the enemy Engineer to help him as he hobbled along, followed after by Pyro.

Well, so far so good. . . Now to see how long this shaky truce would last.

* * *

Music had always had an interesting on Scout. It could brighten and invigorate him or it could drag his mood even lower than before. Often enough he found himself digging out his beatup hand-me-down MP3 and some headphones from the bottom of his drawers and plugging it in, forcing himself to calm down or get all charged up.

It helped him focus on certain tasks, like writing letters home or reading over some new book one of his brothers had sent, and subsequently writing up some kind of "review" for it. Other times when he had to much energy for either of these tasks he'd get up and dance, sometimes twirling and spinning about like an idiot and others heavy stomps and sharp swings, pushing off of walls and grabbing onto his bed or desk whenever he swung too low or felt off-balanced. (Sometimes this happened at night when he couldn't sleep. The other mercs often yelled at him for it the next day. He tried not to care and assure himself that they weren't _trying_ to hate upon one of his coping methods, they simply didn't know and he didn't want to be called out on making "excuses".)

Despite his general hatred of anything and everything that inhibited his breathing, he found the best anology was that he liked to drown himself in music from time to time. Allow the rhythm and the beat, the drums and bass or softer, lighter notes wash over him, pulling him down one wave at a time, until he was so fully submerged that nothing outside himself could touch him or affect him.

It was soothing in it's own right, allowed him to unwind and lay back without any troubles. He had to force himself to be still sometimes for it to have the full affect, and was to date the only time he tolerated holding still of his own volition for long periods of time. (Especially helpful on rainy days, when it was too muddy to get any traction. . . That and the others had practically forbid him from running around during storms since they didn't want him to get sick anymore from it.)

And thus the music moved him.

* * *

Engie knocked at Scout's door, calling out his teammates class name. Pyro was just behind him, clutching their favorite Balloonicorn plush.

There was no reply.

"Scout?" Engineer tried again, knocking a little harder. "We just wanted to check in on ya, Pardner. Been stayin' in yer room more'n more of'en. It ain't like ya."

Still no response.

He tried the door handle and found it was unlocked. Slowly easing open the door, he called out, "Scout. . .?" Only to be greeted with an empty room and open window that let in the wind and rain.

". . . Oh, sweet jeezus."

"Mm's mmne!" Pyro began to poke around the room immediately, looking in every corner, the closest, peering under the bed, while Engineer closed the window, knowing the kid wouldn't want his bed to get soaked, grim with realization.

Isolating himself from the team followed by an empty room and open window usually meant a full-on vanishing act.

Which meant Scout was out there, running alone in the storm. This wasn't good, not good at all! They could go looking for him, but it would be nearly impossible to see a thing in this damned weather and he could be halfway to the enemy base. The best they could hope for was that he'd found shelter and would return once things had cleared up.

At worst. . .

He was hurt, somewhere out in this godforsaken storm. And they'd have to go track him down the next day, rain or shine.

They'd find him and get him back to base, safe and sound.


	5. Talking Too Much

A glance down at the food only my plate. A glance around the table, loud and rowdy rather than quiet, or semi-quiet, like back home.

The pang of homesickness doesn't even register in my head. A very different kind of sickish feeling is far more overpowering, quelling the words before they can reach his lips.

Just a few days prior, he'd been going on about a perfect homerun one of his brothers had pulled a few years back, jabbering on and talking over the others in his excitement.

The happy glow of his excitement and warm nostalgia had been snuffed out easily by Sniper, "OI! I don't blood care! Just shut your trap already. I'm goin' deaf from all yer jabbering."

"O-okay then. . ."

Scout had fallen silent and started to eat his practically untouched meal, and other chatter had arisen around him, but he'd taken no notice.

And now, a week later, he was still silent. Conscious, more like it, of how much he chattered on, fearful of being shut down again.

 _/You're a bother to them./_ the thought intruded upon his mind, making him grimace and shake his head slightly in denial.

He knew Sniper had just been tired and grouchy from the days mission. He knew that. He knew that his teammate hadn't meant to hut his feelings like that. That normally, he liked hearing about Scout's whacky family stories.

 _/He's only tolerating it. He's only being polite. He doesn't care none for you. NONE of them do./_

Biting his lip, Scout carefully and slowly chewed and swallowed the bite of food in his mouth. The taste of his dinner had abruptly become intolerable, his stomach and throat rebelling against the very notion of taking another bite.

His throat tightened, and his lungs felt like a weight had been dropped on them, making breathing a conscious effort, a slight struggle.

Standing up quietly, he cleared his dishes and headed to his room, fighting back against the tears that pricked his eyes.

He was fine. He was fine. There was literally no reason for him to be feeling this way, thinking this way. So why was he. . .?

 _/You're replaceable./_ the little voice in his head hissed, causing him to jolt. _/If something happened to you, a new Scout would be hired. You're not so special. You'd be forgotten in less than a week./_

"Shut your face. . ." He growled under his breath, pressing his hands to his face, shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs. Pushing off of the wall he'd found himself leaning against, he scurried off to his room, haunted by fabricated fears, and desperately questioning every thing the other Merc's had ever said to him.

Desperate to rationalize what was happening in his head, desperate to find something in his memories that indicated they truly appreciated him and liked him, wanted to keep him around . . . Fearful, suddenly, of being a burden or gaining their ire, and felt that old choking feeling overtake him.

Inhaling deeply, suddenly, as though arising to the surface after being submerged in water, Scout sat down hard. Tucking his knees up to his chest, he hid his face behind his arms, and crowded his back against the nearest wall, taking misucle comfort, but comfort nonetheless for the solid surface. Grounding him, in however small a way, to reality.

But it did little to anchor him as his thoughts dissolved into complete and utter turmoil, leaving him battling against thoughts that should never have been his own, struggling, and failing, to figure out what could make the mercs hate him, and finding those reasons anyway, painted over him like the ugly lies they were.

But reality was no more beautiful.


End file.
